


Thy Kingdom Come

by spaceburgers



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Duke Felix Hugo Fraldarius, M/M, Post-Canon, Rating May Change, References to Canonical Character Death, Slow Burn, Spoilers for Azure Moon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-02 21:04:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21167867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceburgers/pseuds/spaceburgers
Summary: “Sylvain," Felix says. "Why are you here? Really?”Or: a year out from the war, Felix learns to rule a territory in peacetime, battle the ghosts of his past, and deal with the fact that Sylvain's mysteriously decided to move into Castle Fraldarius for the foreseeable future.





	Thy Kingdom Come

We were in the gold room where everyone finally gets what they want, so I said _What do you want, sweetheart?_ and you said _Kiss me_. Here I am leaving you clues. I am singing now while Rome burns. We are all just trying to be holy. My applejack, my silent night, just mash your lips against me. We are all going forward. None of us are going back.

  
— Richard Siken, _Snow and Dirty Rain_

* * *

It starts, as with most things, with Sylvain making a nuisance of himself.

More specifically, it starts with a servant rushing in, looking harried, while Felix is trying to have a meeting with his chief economic advisor, a bespectacled old man named Charles who is approximately two hundred years old. The meeting is very much going terribly and Felix is about two seconds away from reaching across the table and throttling Charles with his bare hands when the servant bursts into the room, so he’s more than happy with the interruption. Except then the servant takes a deep breath, opens his mouth, and says, “My Lord, it’s— Well, Lord Gautier is here.”

Felix stares at him. “You mean the Margrave?”

“No, my Lord,” the servant says, looking so flustered that Felix is actually starting to get worried. “It’s his son.”

_Sylvain is here? Why?_ “Did I forget that he was supposed to be visiting?” Felix asks.

“No, he says... well, he told me to tell you that this is a surprise visit.”

“Surprise visit,” Felix mutters under his breath. On one hand he’s annoyed as hell at Sylvain showing up unannounced and sending his servants scrambling, but on the other hand, he is so incredibly grateful for the excuse to leave this meeting that he just might forgive Sylvain and actually let him stay for a bit. And if Felix were to admit to having a third reaction to Sylvain’s sudden arrival, it would be in acknowledgment of the way his heart suddenly rockets up into his throat at the thought of finally getting to see Sylvain again, after almost a full year of mere letters sent back and forth between their territories, a poor substitution for the real flesh-and-blood deal.

But Felix has had two decades worth of practice at ignoring his own feelings, so instead of indulging in any other dangerously sentimental thoughts, he stands up, says to no one in particular, “I should go deal with this,” and walks out the door before anybody can say anything else to him.

* * *

When Felix finally arrives at the front gates of Castle Fraldarius, it’s to witness the sight of Sylvain flirting outrageously with the servant girl who’s come to get his bags. Wait – bags, plural?

Felix doesn’t have long to stew on that realization because as he approaches the two of them he overhears Sylvain saying, “Are you sure you don’t want to come work over at my house? I could use someone as gorgeous as you to brighten up the place,” and the familiar stab of annoyance that Sylvain’s flirting inevitably inspires in him pushes any other errant thoughts out of his mind.

Felix clears his throat, and both Sylvain and the servant girl turn to look at him.

“Trying to poach my servants, I see,” Felix says curtly.

The girl flushes bright red, but Felix waves a hand at her to show that it’s not her that he’s annoyed with. Unfortunately, the actual source of Felix’s wrath shows no similar signs of shame – instead Sylvain grins, steps forward, and pulls Felix into a one-armed hug. “It’s good to see you,” Sylvain murmurs against Felix’s ear, and Felix’s chest goes painfully tight.

The hug is mercifully brief and lasts barely five seconds, but Felix still finds himself acutely aware of every single inch of skin that’s pressed up against Sylvain’s warm body – or maybe it’s him that’s suddenly burning red hot.

Then Sylvain ruins the moment by opening his mouth and saying, “Hey! I wouldn’t be trying to steal your servants if they weren’t so pretty.”

Felix scowls, hand instinctively going to his hip to grab the hilt of his sword, except he doesn’t carry a sword around with him anymore, because the war is over. He chooses to cross his arms over his chest instead.

“What in the goddess’s name are you doing here, Sylvain?” he asks.

Sylvain’s grin widens. “Well, you sounded kind of stressed in your last letter,” he explains, and Felix narrows his eyes. He doesn’t remember what he’d written, but he doesn’t recall saying anything particularly noteworthy.

“I didn’t say that,” Felix insists, even though truthfully he has no idea.

“No, of course you didn’t, but I could tell anyway.” Sylvain puts his hands behind his head and winks. “So I thought to myself, well, I should come visit my old friend, see how he’s holding up.”

“I am holding up just fine,” Felix says. “Now go away.”

“Ah, Felix, you’d really be so heartless as to send me away? Even after I’d packed all my things with me?” Sylvain replies, pouting for dramatic effect. Felix furrows his brow.

“You packed all your things?” he repeats. He turns to watch the servant girl attempt to pick up one of Sylvain’s humongous bags, and he sighs.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says to her. “Lord Gautier will take his things up by himself.”

“Excuse me?” Sylvain squawks. “Is that how you treat all your esteemed guests?”

“No, just how I treat the unwelcome ones,” Felix retorts. “Besides, it’s been less than a year since the war ended, don’t tell me all your muscles have atrophied already.”

“I’ll have you know that I’m still fit as ever, Felix,” Sylvain tuts. “But fine, I’ll do it. If only so I don’t burden such pretty hands with menial labor like this.” He directs his dazzling smile at the servant girl, who turns a startling shade of scarlet in response. Felix sighs again.

“You’re dismissed,” he tells her, and she bows quickly before making her escape. “Now come on,” he continues, turning back to Sylvain. “Grab your stuff and come with me.”

“So you’re letting me stay,” Sylvain says, smirking as he lifts both of his bags effortlessly. Maybe Sylvain really hadn’t been lying about keeping fit. Felix spares a glance at the muscles of Sylvain’s arms, the way the fabric of his shirt stretches tight over his biceps, and then pointedly looks away again.

“Temporarily,” Felix warns, and then turns and walks through the front doors, letting Sylvain follow from behind.

They trudge along the winding hallways and stairwells of Castle Fraldarius in companionable silence, which Felix is thankful for. Around most people Sylvain is usually unbearably chatty, but around the people who actually know him he really isn’t all that talkative. They don’t say a word as Felix leads him to the room that Sylvain usually stays in when he’s visiting – not that he really needs to guide Sylvain, honestly, because Sylvain’s been here so many times that he could probably locate the room on his own while blindfolded.

The room is right next to Felix’s own private chamber. It also used to be Glenn’s room, but Felix is steadfastly refusing to think about that.

Sylvain whistles lowly when they finally reach the room and he gets to set his bags down. “It really hasn’t changed a bit, has it?” he says, looking around.

“Of course not,” Felix replies, and then steels himself to ask the question he’d been thinking ever since the moment he saw Sylvain standing on his doorstep. “Sylvain – why are you here? Really?”

The genial smile suddenly falls off of Sylvain’s face, and he looks startling serious all of a sudden.

“I just thought you might need some help,” he says, his voice unexpectedly soft. “I know you’d never ask for it. But I also know that you could use it.”

“I don’t need your help,” Felix says automatically, even though Sylvain is right. He’d never in a million years tell anyone that he’s struggling, but the truth is, he is. He thinks back to the disastrous meeting with Charles that he’d just walked out on: the way Charles' eyebrows had pinched tighter and tighter as he’d tried to explain to Felix the ins and outs of peasant taxation systems. Felix hadn’t understood a single word of it, and the shame bubbling up in his throat at his own incompetency had ended up spilling over into rage, the only emotion that Felix has ever felt truly comfortable expressing. How Sylvain somehow knows this, has managed to discern this just from Felix’s curt and infrequent letters – well, sometimes it’s better not to try and understand how Sylvain’s mind works.

“Fine,” Sylvain says. “Not help, then, but company. You’re all alone in this castle, Felix.”

“I’m not alone,” Felix says, stubborn to the last drop. “I have—”

“Servants and advisors and knights,” Sylvain finishes. “But not a single friend.”

Felix stays silent.

Sylvain sighs, running his hand through his hair. “Okay, fine. If not for you, then for me, okay? Let me stay here for my own sake. I’m bored to death in my own home.”

“Don’t you have your own responsibilities to take care of back home?” Felix snipes back.

“Nah,” Sylvain replies easily. “My old man’s still alive and kicking, so—” and abruptly cuts himself off at the way Felix’s face falls at those worlds. Because obviously Felix’s own father is neither alive nor kicking, which is precisely why Felix is now finding himself in the unenviable position of having to learn how to be Duke all on his own, after five and a half years of only needing to know how best to cut down an enemy, how to stay alive in the middle of a war.

“I have to get back to a meeting,” Felix says, hating how hollow his voice sounds to his own ears. “I’ll let you unpack.”

He doesn't look back as he slams the door to Glenn’s – no, Sylvain’s room shut.

* * *

The next time he sees Sylvain is at dinner. He’d asked for a second serving of bread, but when he looks up, expecting a servant to hand it to him, it’s to see a shame-faced Sylvain clutching the basket instead.

“Can I sit down?” he asks.

Felix stares at him.

“Look, I’m sorry for what I said, okay?” Sylvain continues. “I clearly wasn’t thinking, and—”

“You never do,” Felix mutters, and Sylvain grins, because he’s known Felix long enough to recognize that sentence as the grudging forgiveness that it really is.

“So can I sit? I’m starving,” Sylvain says.

“You should’ve just asked the servants to bring you something to eat in your quarters,” Felix sighs, but he gestures at the chair across from him, motioning for Sylvain to sit.

“Well, they’re _your _people,” he says as he slides into the seat. “I didn’t want to boss them around.”

“You’re a guest,” Felix returns. “You should be comfortable.”

“I think this is the nicest you’ve ever been to me,” Sylvain says, with a note of wonderment in his voice. “Did you hit your head earlier today?”

“Shut up,” Felix mutters, feeling his cheeks start to go a little warm. At least the lighting in the dining room is dim enough that Sylvain probably won’t be able to see it. “See if I’m ever civil to you again.”

So Felix gets the chef to whip up dinner for Sylvain too, and they sit and talk for a long time, not about anything in particular, just catching up on each other’s lives. Sylvain tells Felix about the latest happenings over in Gautier territory: the new market square that’s being set up, his mother’s newfound obsession with topiary. Felix responds with stories of his own, even if many of them are at his own expense. He winds up telling Sylvain about the disastrous meeting with Charles earlier today, complaining about how he doesn't understand why there needs to be so many different types of taxes, and privately, Felix thinks it’s worth it for the way Sylvain ends up laughing so hard he’s almost bent in double, shoulders shaking from the force of it.

“Oh goddess, you really – you just _walked out_? Really?” Sylvain gasps.

“_You _were the one who showed up out of the blue!” Felix protests.

“Yeah, but you walked right out! Oh, Felix, do you remember – that time back at the academy, when you tried to walk out of class because the professor tried to force you to learn some magic—” Sylvain continues, and only stops talking when Felix throws a half-eaten roll of bread directly at his head.

They spend the rest of the night like that, trading stories and reminiscing on more innocent days, and Felix only really remembers the actual reason why Sylvain is even here in the first place when they’re almost back at their respective quarters and Sylvain says, hesitantly, “You know… if you need any help with Charles, or about this kind of policy stuff in general, I’m happy to talk you through it.”

Felix doesn’t respond right away. His instinctive response is to refuse Sylvain’s help again, but he thinks back to the way Sylvain had apologized to him earlier. Maybe he owes it to Sylvain to say yes for once.

“Fine,” he says at last. “I’ll let you know.”

He doesn't miss the way Sylvain blinks at him, surprised, before his entire face lights up, just from Felix agreeing to let Sylvain help him out. He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this kind of response, or why something as simple as that can make Sylvain this incandescently and unabashedly happy.

“Great!” Sylvain replies, beaming. “Just hit me up whenever! I’m right here. Literally,” he adds, gesturing to their rooms, separated only by a single wall.

Felix snorts. “Good night, Sylvain,” he says. 

“Good night,” Sylvain returns, still smiling, and then they go their separate ways.

* * *

The next day, Felix wakes up at the crack of dawn as he always does.

It’s a habit by now, ingrained from a childhood of harsh training schedules, and then from long years of war. He has a routine: he wakes up along with the first rays of sun, washes up, and then immediately heads to the training grounds. If he doesn’t start his morning with some training, he knows he’ll be antsy and anxious for the rest of the day. Usually he’ll find a few Fraldarius soldiers already there who are willing to have a match or two with him – but today Sylvain is here, and Felix hasn’t sparred with him for a very long time.

So, instead of heading straight down to the training ground, he finds himself standing outside Sylvain’s door and knocking.

“Sylvain?” he calls. No response.

Felix goes ahead and pushes open the door, and is greeted by the sight of Sylvain, still in bed, most of his face mashed against his pillow and his blanket pulled all the way up to his shoulders.

“Sylvain,” Felix repeats, louder this time.

“Mmmmmmmmrrrrrrrrr,” Sylvain says intelligently.

“Good, you’re awake,” Felix says. “Come spar with me.”

Sylvain lets out a long and unintelligible groan.

“You’re my guest,” Felix tells him. “So you play by my rules.”

“What ever happened to being comfortable?” Sylvain mutters, finally turning his head so that at least he isn’t speaking directly into his pillow anymore. His one visible eye blinks up at Felix.

“If you can make those puppy dog eyes at me, you can come down to the training ground for a match,” Felix says.

“’m not making eyes,” Sylvain grumbles, but he sits up anyway, making a show out of stretching and yawning loudly.

“Training ground. Ten minutes. See you there,” Felix says, and then walks out.

He’s done warming up and is in the middle of polishing his sword when Sylvain finally saunters in, finally looking fresh and awake.

“Seriously, Felix?” he complains. “You couldn’t have waited till the sun was fully up before you dragged me out of bed?”

“No,” Felix replies. “Grab a weapon.”

The look on Sylvain’s face suddenly changes – it grows sharper somehow, more discerning, and Felix realizes with a jolt that the last time he saw that look on Sylvain’s face was right before the Battle of Enbarr. He hasn’t seen it since the end of the war, and the sight of it again makes Felix’s breath catch in his throat.

He watches as Sylvain walks over to where the weapons are stored, rolling his shoulders as he does. Sylvain looks at the assortment of weapons, gaze flitting over them before he finally picks up a training lance. He twirls it once before dropping his arm back to his side.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“Always,” Felix replies, standing up.

As they walk to their starting positions, Felix briefly wonders how much Sylvain’s been keeping up with his training. Felix still practices every day, but Sylvain’s never been as diligent as him. He’s probably going to be weak and out of practice, Felix thinks. Maybe he should go easy on him—

Sylvain strikes while Felix is distracted by his thoughts, and it’s only sheer instinct that makes Felix raise his sword in time to block Sylvain’s strike, aimed precisely between his ribs.

“Careful, Fraldarius,” Sylvain grins, baring his teeth. It is, if Felix were to be completely honest, almost devastatingly attractive.

Felix pulls back, slipping away from Sylvain with a smoothly-executed turn, raising his sword to bring it down against Sylvain’s back. Sylvain turns too, but he’s just a hair too slow, and the tip of Felix’s sword ends up pressed against Sylvain’s shoulder.

“A point for me,” Felix says, matching Sylvain’s earlier smile with a smirk of his own. “You were saying?”

Sylvain’s eyes light up, and then they’re off again, weapons clashing over and over again. They’re more evenly matched than Felix expected. He barely even notices when the soldiers coming in for their morning drills start to gather around the both of them, watching their match with open interest.

Felix hasn’t felt this alive in a very long time.

Sylvain is stronger than him, but Felix is faster – he still remembers, and it’s partly his mind and partly muscle memory that helps him dodge Sylvain’s blows. Sylvain still fights the same way: with sharp, almost clinical precision, his mind turning and turning until he finds the perfect opening, letting him put all his might into a single, perfectly-placed strike. Felix remembers how much he loves sparring with Sylvain, realizes that he’s missed how easily they can read each other, how compatible their strengths are.

Still, it also means Felix remembers all of Sylvain’s weaknesses. He always did favor his right side to his left.

_There_, Felix thinks, and finally manages to knock Sylvain’s lance out of his hands with a final, carefully-aimed strike.

There’s a moment where Sylvain just stares back at Felix, eyes wide, as if in shock at having lost the match; but then all of a sudden there’s a bout of scattered whooping, and Felix blinks as it finally occurs to him that the soldiers who were matching the match are cheering – for _him_.

“Nothing to see here,” Felix says to the assembled crowd, feeling slightly overwhelmed. “Get back to your drills.” There are scattered calls of _yes, sir_, but otherwise the crowd quickly disperses, and the training ground gradually goes back to how its normal state of regular morning activity.

“Well, that was fun,” Sylvain says, smiling lopsidedly as he lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe away the sweat on his brow. Felix catches a glance at his abs – Sylvain’s still as built as ever. He really hasn’t fallen behind on his training at all.

“I thought you would’ve been totally out of practice,” Felix admits, setting his sword down. He’s a lot more winded that he’d initially realized, and it leaves him feeling satisfied in a bone-deep kind of way. In a way he hasn’t felt in a very long time.

“That’s fair,” Sylvain concedes, scratching his head. “But, no, I’ve had to keep up. Just because Fódlan’s united and peaceful now doesn’t mean conflict with our neighbors is going to stop. There’s actually been a bunch of skirmishes at the Sreng border since the war ended, so I’ve been dealing with that. Still at conflict, even though the war’s over.”

Sylvain’s expression suddenly grows dark as he speaks, and Felix has no idea what’s happening.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and Sylvain blinks, gaze clearing.

“Oh, right. It’s nothing, sorry. Just got lost in thought.” Sylvain plasters a grin back on his face, but Felix has known Sylvain for long enough to know when he’s forcing himself to smile. Before Felix can comment on it, though, Sylvain starts talking about taking a bath before breakfast, and wondering if maybe any cute female knights were watching them spar, and Felix figures that that’s Sylvain’s way of telling him to let it go.

Felix, however, is famously bad at letting things go, and the unhappy look on Sylvain’s face lingers in his mind for a long time.

* * *

“So,” Sylvain says over breakfast. “What’s your schedule for today?”

“Meetings,” Felix mutters, stabbing his fork into a slice of bacon.

“With Charles again?” Sylvain asks, smirking. Felix scowls.

“Worse,” Felix says darkly. “The entire council.”

Sylvain chuckles as he spears his breakfast with his fork. “You were never good with numbers,” he muses. “You and Dimitri both.”

“Well, clearly he’s doing a lot better these days,” Felix returns, feeling his mood grow sour. He doesn’t need the reminder that he’s somehow still as dumb as always, thank you very much, and definitely not from Sylvain of all people, who is so effortlessly intelligent that it never fails to drive Felix up the wall.

“Honestly, I’m sure it’s mostly the Professor who handles all that stuff,” Sylvain jokes. “Although I don’t really know how I feel about that, given that she’s the archbishop and all…”

“Great, I should just marry someone who can handle all my work for me for the rest of my life,” Felix deadpans, and – maybe he’s just imagining things, but he swears he sees Sylvain suddenly fumble with his fork, and it almost slips out of his hand before he catches it at the last second.

“I don’t know about marriage,” Sylvain says, not quite meeting Felix’s eyes, and no, it’s definitely not Felix’s imagination – Sylvain’s face is a little pale right now. Huh. “But I can help you out a little while I’m here.”

“You want to take my place at the meeting?” Felix asks, raising an eyebrow, and Sylvain laughs, finally looking up properly.

“I thought I might sit in, at least,” he says. “I mean, I won’t say anything if you don’t want me to—”

“You can run your mouth all you want, I don’t care,” Felix interrupts, and is rewarded with the sly grin that spreads over Sylvain’s face.

“This is the only time in my entire life I’ve been given permission to say whatever I want,” Sylvain says wonderingly, putting his hand on his chest for added dramatic effect.

“Don’t make me regret it,” Felix warns. Sylvain just keeps on smiling.

* * *

Felix always forgets just how much he hates these meetings until he’s in the middle of them. They’re different from the council meetings back during the war – at least then he’d known what he was talking about. He’d felt valued. Important. He knows just many times his strategies and suggestions have saved the entire Kingdom army from certain death.

Here, though, he can’t help but feel like he’s wasting everybody’s time, especially his own.

They’re supposed to be giving updates on how the Fraldarius economy is doing, and Felix isn’t completely idiotic, he knows what they’re talking about, can follow the thread of the conversation – except whoever is talking will inevitably end up looking at him, expecting him to say something intelligent in response, something meaningful and insightful and authoritative, and Felix just can’t do that. He’s not Glenn. He’s not his father. He’s just himself.

Right now the councilman in charge of military spending is saying something about being able to lower the percentage of peasant taxation being spent on the Fraldarius army in order to maintain the same military budget, and Felix is busy steeling himself to be on the receiving end of that _look _again, which is why he doesn't expect it at all when Sylvain suddenly clears his throat and says, “Excuse me, can I ask a question?”

A second of silence hangs in the room. Felix watches as some of the councilmen exchange confused (and in some cases, disparaging) looks. Felix thinks he might be starting to regret giving permission to Sylvain to say whatever he wants.

“Yes, Lord Gautier?” the advisor says, smiling tightly.

“Why is House Fraldarius maintaining the same military budget as it did right after the war ended?” Sylvain asks, all wide-eyed innocence. Felix knows that look. He’s seen that look turned on any number of unsuspecting victims: Sylvain’s father, Professor Byleth, so many girls that Felix can’t even be bothered to count. That’s how Felix knows that whatever Sylvain is about to say next is going to be completely and utterly devastating.

“Well, I don’t see why there’s any need to change it—”

“Is House Fraldarius at any imminent risk of military conflict? Why aren’t more funds being allocated to economic aid, or revitalizing the peasant economy?” Sylvain continues, and Felix watches mutely as the councilman splutters, starting to go red in the face.

“In our long history, House Fraldarius has always maintained a robust military should the royal family require any assistance—”

“And no time in history has the entirety of Fódlan been Kingdom territory,” Sylvain points out. “I don’t see the point of continuing to rely on obsolete precedents.”

“With all due respect, Lord Gautier,” the councilman says, his tone suddenly gone sharp, “this is House Fraldarius, not House Gautier. It’s not your place to tell us how we should run our own territory.”

“No, you’re right,” Sylvain agrees easily. “It’s not my place – it’s his.” He turns to Felix, smiling genially, and Felix narrows his eyes in response, because he has no idea what kind of stunt Sylvain might be trying to pull. “What do _you_ think, Duke Fraldarius?”

Felix purses his lips. Surely Sylvain knows how much he hates being put on the spot like this. He feels humiliated, at having his own meeting hijacked by a visiting guest, but mostly because Sylvain is _right_. He agrees completely, but he’s never actually said as much out loud – how come it’s taken Sylvain five minutes to say something that Felix should’ve said five months ago?

Feeling the back of his neck prickling with shame, Felix takes a deep breath and says, “I agree with Lord Gautier.”

He expects Sylvain to grin, or to gloat, but he does neither of those things. He just sits there, hands folded, the perfect picture of noble civility, and in that moment, Felix thinks he might actually hate Sylvain. Hate him, for his strength and his smarts and his good breeding, all things that Felix should possess but clearly doesn’t.

The councilmen exchange looks again, and Felix knows exactly what they’re thinking. They’re thinking about how weak Felix is, for letting himself get railroaded by someone who shouldn't even be here, someone who isn’t supposed to have any say at all in the matters of House Fraldarius.

All of these councilmen have been serving the house since his father was Duke. A good half of them have been here for even longer than that.

They must be thinking about how Felix can’t hold a candle to his predecessors.

“Of course, my Lord,” the councilman finally says. “I’ll readjust the budget and report back at the next meeting.”

Felix nods. “Thank you,” he says, and is relieved when his voice comes out sounding normal. “Let’s move on to the next person.”

Sylvain doesn’t say anything for the rest of the meeting.

* * *

The second the meeting ends, Felix stands up and gets ready to walk out.

“Felix, wait—”

Sylvain tries to grab Felix’s arm, but Felix shrugs him off easily before storming out of the room. He knows that he’s acting like a surly seventeen-year-old all over again, but he can’t help it. Sylvain’s presence always throws him off-kilter, makes him feel so much younger and dumber than he actually is, and he hates it. Maybe Sylvain being here was a bad idea all along. Maybe he should send him home tomorrow, get a horse ready and finally tell Sylvain to get the hell out of here. It’s only been two days, and he’s already gotten mad at Sylvain twice.

Maybe the idea of Sylvain is better in theory than in practice.

It wasn’t always like this. They used to get along so much better when they were kids, when they were at the monastery. Maybe it’s not Sylvain who’s throwing Felix off-balance; maybe it’s this strange new world that Felix has found himself suddenly thrust into, where he’s Duke and where his father is dead. What did Sylvain say at the meeting? _There’s no point in relying on obsolete precedents?_

Felix doesn't go to the training grounds. It’s too obvious; it’s definitely the first place Sylvain would think to check, even though the thought of getting to hack down a couple dozen training dummies does seem like a tempting one right now.

But Felix doesn't do it. Instead, he heads upstairs, slips into a dusty storeroom, pushes open a door partially hidden by a pile of crates, and finds himself in a tiny balcony overlooking the entirety of Fraldarius territory.

It’s his spot, his private refuge in the middle of a sprawling castle. He’d found it by chance as a kid, playing hide-and-seek with Dimitri and Sylvain and Ingrid when they’d been visiting, and ever since then it’s been his go-to spot every time he just needs to be left alone. He’s pretty sure no one else in the castle knows about it – not the servants, not the knights.

The balcony is tiny, just small enough to fit the four of them as children. He doesn’t think they could all squeeze into the space anymore – but then again, what are the chances all four of them end up in Castle Fraldarius at the same time again? They’re all busy now. Dimitri has a whole continent to rule, and Ingrid’s finally fulfilled her dream of becoming a knight, and Sylvain…

Well. The whole point of coming here was to not think about Sylvain, so Felix doesn’t. Instead he hoists himself on top of the parapet and sits down, dangling his legs over the side. He used to be too afraid to do that as a kid, scared that he’d fall off the edge, but Felix finds he isn’t afraid anymore. Instead he just closes his eyes, feeling the wind on his face.

The last time he’d been here was during the war, back before he’d found out Dimitri and the professor were both still alive. He remembers sitting here, just like he’s doing right now, except it’d been night, and all he could see were scattered torches spread across the land, and a sky full of stars above him. He remembers how hopeless he’d felt then, remembers thinking that it was only a matter of time until Cornelia’s forces finally invaded Fraldarius territory for good. If that Felix from four years ago could see him now – could see the bustle of the town below him, people going about their regular lives, putting the long, grueling years of war behind them – he thinks he would be happy.

Maybe Felix – the Felix that exists right now, in the present – should be happy too.

He doesn’t know how long he spends sitting there, watching the town below him, but he doesn't startle at all when he hears the door swing open behind him, then a series of slow padding footsteps before he feels Sylvain finally settle down on the parapet next to him.

Felix chances a look at Sylvain’s profile, but Sylvain isn’t looking back at him. He’s gazing out at the landscape before him instead, and Felix takes a moment to just stare openly: at the seriousness of Sylvain’s gaze, the proud curve of his nose, the faint dusting of freckles across his cheeks, and Felix’s chest aches with just how much he _wants_. He’s been wanting a lot that he can’t have lately.

He only realizes he’s been staring when Sylvain’s lips suddenly part, and Felix turns away again quickly before Sylvain starts speaking.

“I’m sorry if I overstepped,” is what he says. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“You were right though,” Felix replies. “I can’t fault you for that.”

He could probably count on one hand the number of times he’s ever admitted to Sylvain being right about anything in his entire life. If this conversation were happening back at the monastery, he thinks Sylvain would probably be feigning exaggerated shock, maybe asking Felix if he’d hit his head recently, just to ease the tension that clings to the air between them.

But they’re not at the monastery anymore, so instead Sylvain just looks down at his hands and says, quietly, “Still. I was being tactless.”

“There’s no need for tact between us,” Felix returns, and Sylvain chuckles dryly.

“No, I guess not,” he says.

Felix doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just remains quiet.

Silences between himself and Sylvain are usually comfortable. They’ve known each other for long enough that neither of them feel the need to fill the space between them with words; Felix can usually tell what Sylvain’s thinking anyway. But lately Sylvain’s felt far away, inscrutable, and Felix doesn’t know what to do about it. They’ve stuck together through funerals and fights and a full-blown war. Felix has no idea why things should be any different now, in peacetime.

“Hey Felix?” Sylvain suddenly says, pulling Felix away from his thoughts. “Do you remember, back when we were at the academy, how you used to yell at me every time I hurt myself in battle?”

“I wouldn’t have yelled at you so much if you’d taken your training more seriously,” Felix counters, finding himself already falling back into old arguments – not that he really minds, though. It’s comforting, somehow, to be rehashing these fights from a long time ago.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sylvain allows. “But, listen, do you know why I’m bringing that up again?”

“Obviously not,” Felix mutters, but Sylvain doesn’t fall for the obvious bait.

“Don’t get mad at me for saying this,” Sylvain begins, which is what he always says before proceeding to say something that will inevitably piss Felix off, so this is definitely a promising start, “but – look, I know you care about me, okay? That’s why I always let you storm into the infirmary and yell my head off even when I was feeling like shit. Because I knew that was just your way of telling me you were worried about me.”

Felix wants to say – something. Argue with Sylvain just for argument’s sake. But as usual, Sylvain’s absolutely, one hundred percent right, and Felix just keeps his mouth shut.

“So you can’t get mad at me for being worried about you too, alright? Because I am. It worries me that you’re here alone, with no family. I know that after your dad died you didn’t let yourself grieve, because there was a war to fight.” Sylvain finally turns to look at Felix, and his gaze is so blisteringly earnest that Felix has to fight the urge to look away. “But the war’s over now, so let me help you, okay? The way you helped me back when the whole Miklan thing went down.”

Felix still doesn’t say anything.

“I said not to get mad at me,” Sylvain pleads, starting to look a little desperate.

“When has that ever stopped me?” Felix mutters, and it’s only the way Sylvain’s face starts to fall that makes Felix add, “I’m not angry. Not at you, at least.”

“But you _are _angry,” Sylvain says, and it’s not a question.

“I’m always angry.” Felix turns back to look out at the landscape beneath him. “Usually it was at my father, but now he’s dead.”

“You can still be angry at the dead,” Sylvain points out. “Trust me, I have a lot of experience with that.”

Felix is silent for a long moment, trying to choose his words carefully.

“I don’t want to still be angry at my father,” he finally says, squinting at the horizon. “I feel like the most ungrateful heir alive.”

Sylvain laughs. “Ingrid left her entire homeland behind to go join the Kingdom knights, you know,” he says. “I think you can stand to be a little bitter at your old man.”

“But that’s the problem. I think I’m more than just a little bit bitter,” Felix admits, feeling his skin prickle from the rawness of this confession. “I feel like I’ve spent most of my life hating my father, and now I don’t know how to stop.”

And now it’s Sylvain’s turn to be rendered speechless. Felix would feel more triumphant about the whole thing if he didn’t feel so hollow on the inside.

“I just think,” Felix continues, and shuts his eyes as if it’ll somehow stop the sudden flood of nausea that rises up in his gut like bile, “he would be disappointed in me.”

“Felix—” Sylvain begins, but Felix shakes his head.

“It’s fine,” he says. “Really.”

Before Sylvain can say anything else Felix slides neatly off the parapet, landing back on the balcony with both feet.

“It’s lunchtime,” Felix says, his voice gone back to normal. “Let’s go.”

Sylvain stares at Felix for a long time before he gets down too, and follows Felix back inside.


End file.
